seven bridges road
by the red feather
Summary: They don't usually do Christmas or even birthdays, really, let alone the Fourth of July, but Dean just isn't going to stand for that this year. The Winchesters' Independence Day 1996, aka Dean's first memory in Heaven.


Sam spends the better part of the Fourth of July sulking, and Dean spends the morning watching him sulk. Dad's been gone for five days – he was supposed to be back in three, and they were supposed to be at Bobby's by the Fourth, where Dad probably would have left again but at least there would be hot dogs and cold drinks and maybe a chance to blow shit up – and it's a blazing hot summer day in Podunk, Nebraska, population three hundred and fifty-two. The town doesn't even have a library, a fact that Sam _will not stop_ whining about and which means that he's been cooped up inside the motel room instead, reading the same five comic books over and over again. School's out, so he doesn't even have homework to keep that geek brain of his satisfied, and the restlessness is starting to show as he huffs through _Sensational Spider-Man_ #5 for the third time.

Dean's been watching crappy daytime TV for hours now, not really willing to brave the heat outside even if there was something to _do_ in this town. Even though he's trying to be the bigger person here and _not_ complain about the shittiness of this day, of this town and this _week,_ he's kinda got to agree with Sam's wearied sighs and significant glares at the door that Dad isn't walking through.

It's not like they really _do_ holidays, if he's honest with himself. Christmas and Thanksgiving and even birthdays aren't usually marked in any particular way except perhaps some extra drinks on Dad's part – but as holidays go, this one _really_ sucks ass.

They wander into town around two for lunch, walking through the hot, sticky afternoon since Dad's still got the car, and find the cheapest place to eat (not that there's much choice – there are only two restaurants in town, and only one of them serves pie). Sam seems to cheer up a little when they splurge on lunch, burgers and fries and milkshakes, a rare treat. Sam inhales his food and makes it through two chocolate milkshakes while Dean enjoys his bacon cheeseburger and pie (along with the pretty waitress, a petite little redhead named Tara who's his age and quite...forward).

Back at the motel, though, Sam's back to moping and huffing and generally being thirteen and pissy. Dean decides quickly that he's got to do something about this, because he _cannot take_ another eight hours cooped up in a motel room with Sam in full bitch mode.

He thinks about the fireworks stand he saw in town, in the dirt lot across from the Stop N' Save, and about the wad of bills in his jacket pocket that he's been saving since he turned seventeen in January, doing odd jobs and hustling small takes when Dad isn't looking.

It takes less than a minute to decide what he wants to do with it. He tells Sam he's got "things to take care of" in town, and waggles his eyebrows suggestively so that Sam assumes he's going to see Tara The Very Forward Waitress. Sam gives him the mother of all self-righteously disgusted bitch-faces and goes back to sharpening the knives.

He comes back two hours later with a plastic crate full of fireworks and a hickey on his neck. (The diner was on the way, okay, and it's not like he was going to pass on _that_ golden opportunity).

Sam's so excited about the fireworks that he forgets to give Dean a hard time about his very obvious recent score, and when it starts getting dark they hit the road and start walking out away from town, Sam clutching the crate of fireworks and bouncing with anticipation.

Dad would kill them if he knew what they were doing, wandering out in the middle of nowhere to light fireworks in some field, but for once Dean allows himself to not give a shit. The motel's half a mile down the road, he's seventeen years old, there's a gun tucked in the back of his pants, and Sam is happier than he's been since Dad left five days ago.

Hell, he thinks this might be the happiest Sam's been – or at least the happiest Sam's looked – since school ended in June and they pulled up stakes in Michigan, where they'd stayed for two months before leaving.

When they find a wide open field that looks good for setting off the fireworks, they start with just one or two at a time. Then Sam says they just ought to light all of them at once, and so Dean obliges, lighting as many of the fuses in the crate as he can and then running for it. When he's back with Sam, he turns and watches as the rockets shoot into the sky. The tiny flames that his lighter started snake up and turn into an explosion of colors on fire, lighting up the night sky and Sam's face beside him – and just for a moment there's nothing but this, fireworks crackling in the sky in brilliant blooms of red and orange and purple and green. There's nothing but Sam laughing, Dean grinning, the exhilaration of the moment catching them and carrying them up, up, up towards the stars.

Sam's jumping up and down like a much younger kid, grinning and gazing at the explosions above. Just for a minute, he looks more three than thirteen, pure childish joy on his face as he watches the explosions, traces the fall of the sparks down to earth. Sam turns to him and says "Thanks, Dean, this is great," and wraps his arms around him, quickly.

Dean's frozen, for a second, and looks down at Sam, who still appears to be grinning even as he's hugging Dean.

Being a big brother – being _Sam's_ brother – is like breathing. It's as much a part of him as his hands and his feet and his hair and his eyes. But sometimes it's like _more_ than breathing, no matter how girly that sounds. It's like – like the first time he drove the Impala, roaring down a deserted strip of dirt road in Alabama, wind whipping through the open window and the blue sky stretching out in front of him, freedom in the purr of the engine and the sun-baked heat of the steering wheel under his hands. It's like the best piece of pie he's ever eaten, like the pie _Mom_ used to make, the crust all flaky and melt-in-your mouth good and the apples inside soft but not mushy, with just the right amount of nutmeg and cinnamon.

It's like being _more_ than alive, like taking a breath that's so big, so full, that you feel like it'll keep you going for days, like you'll never have to breathe again because _this_ will keep you going.

Dean lets himself hug Sam back, just for a second – holds him close, doesn't want to let him go. Then he's ruffling his hair, messing up his little brother's too-long haircut, and Sam's face is back to a good-natured scowl as he bats Dean's hands away from his head and looks back at the fireworks, joy on his face still.

When the explosions are dying down a falling spark hits the grass in the field, and fire starts spreading fast, faster than they can catch it. By the time they've finished throwing dirt on the fire and stomping out the flames they can reach, over half of the field is burned to the ground, smoke curling in the air above the places the flames have been. With the fire safely out, they book it, tearing off running down the side of the road and laughing the whole time. Dean considers that maybe they shouldn't be laughing quite so hard considering they just burned down a fucking field (they're a ways from town, but not so far that people won't notice _that_ much smoke) but he just can't help it, and apparently Sam can't either, from the way he's wheezing and grinning as he sprints ahead of Dean.

When they make it back to the motel half a mile down the road, Dad's still not back. Dean isn't surprised, and for once in his life, he really doesn't care much. He's still laughing, and they've still got a couple small fireworks left in the pocket of Dean's jacket. They set them off in the motel parking lot, and since there isn't anyone else actually _staying_ at the Pinewood Trails Motor Lodge, they get away with it – at least until Sam lights the last firework, which smokes and sparks and sends out a _very_ high-pitched screeching noise that lasts for a good minute. The motel manager, who was apparently either ignoring or sleeping through the previous few explosions, cusses them out from the doorway of his apartment and then slams the door with impressive force, muttering about "damn kids" and yelling at them to take their asses inside or get kicked out.

He should probably be worried that word of this is going to get back to Dad, but Dean can't help it. He just starts laughing again – the desperately amused, can't-believe-that-just-happened, getting-away-with-stupid-shit kind of laughter that bubbles up and lasts for minutes. Sam laughs with him, too, all the way back to the motel room.

There's half a leftover pizza from yesterday in the mini-fridge in their room, and TV Land is playing re-runs of _The A-Team_, which Dean loves and Sam pretends to hate (but really loves just as much as he does). Between the two of them there's enough change for a couple cans of Coke from the vending machine outside, and they settle onto a bed with their four-dollar dinner and fight companionably over the last piece of pizza. Sam throws olives at the television while he whines about "just how _improbable_ that is, Dean, there's absolutely _no way_ that they could have pulled that off in that amount of time", and Dean scoffs at Sam for failing to understand that Hannibal Smith can fucking do _anything._

By the time they get to the end of the fourth episode in a row, their eyelids are definitely drooping as they lean up next to each other against the headboard of the bed.

Sam's voice is sleepy and wandering when he says "Hey Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"I know I said it already, but...thanks. For today."

Dean mumbles a quiet "you're welcome, bitch", and by the time Sam mutters back "jerk", he's already asleep. Sam's not far behind, and later he won't even remember dozing off – but when he does, it's with his head on Dean's shoulder.

John gets in well before the crack of dawn the next morning and finds them asleep, still dressed and sprawled across each other on one the beds, legs tangled together and clothes smelling of smoke. The room's a mess, Coke cans piled up in an empty pizza box next to the bed, and the TV's still on, some local news report about a fire last night off the edge of town.

He means to wake the boys up, give them a lecture about the state of the room and the fact that it was so easy for him to just waltz in the door, but he just doesn't have the heart. They're both smiling as they sleep, in the mouth-half-open, drooling and content way that most people smile while sleeping, and he's bone tired.

He picks up the trash, throws a blanket over the boys, strips off his jacket and blood-spattered boots and drops into the other bed, practically asleep before his head hits the pillow.

In the other bed, Sam throws an arm over his brother as he sleeps.


End file.
